


let me lay waste to thee

by barelyprolific



Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: 1x08, Character Study, Demons, Demons Are Assholes, F/M, M/M, Swearing, TA Hunter, Undercover Demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-11 22:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16861540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barelyprolific/pseuds/barelyprolific
Summary: Hunter gives Parker advice he should really take himself, and spends too much time thinking about how Harry likes his tea.





	let me lay waste to thee

**Author's Note:**

> I have a sneaking suspicion that Hunter's not going to survive the next episode. :( This little crack ship inspires me so much, though, I can't _not_ write them. Might as well make the best of it while it isn't (totally) AU.

_“‘Cause Park, that’s not us. Feelings are for people.”_

_._

_._

_._

**_let me lay waste to thee_ **

Hunter doesn’t mean to be harsh. The Devil knows Parker gets enough of that from their dick dad. If the kid is going to survive, though, then he needs to understand that emotions are a weakness. They get in the way, and they are the quickest route a demon can take to meet his downfall.

Really, Hunter is just trying to look out for him.

Disguised as the waitress he has tied up and gagged in the cleaning closet, Hunter watches Parker and the little witch finish their meal, leave the restaurant. It seems that Parker’s brought up the plasma transfusion, at least, which is good. He’s on track, and their father will be pleased.

Their father’s always easier to suffer when he’s pleased.

.

.

.

The guise of graduate student is one that Hunter can admit he has too much fun with. It’s possibly his favorite role, if only because he gets to wear his _own_ human face. Hunter picked it because he liked it, and he likes showing it off even more.

Hunter runs his comb through his hair one more time, making sure it’s going to hold at least until he gets to Professor Greenwood’s office. The top three buttons on his maroon henley are undone, his jeans hug his ass just right, and the brown cardigan brings out his eyes. He looks _good_. Hunter sets down the comb and smirks at himself, gives a little wink.

When he breezes into the office, he’s holding two steaming cups. He sets one down in front of the professor’s empty chair and frowns. Takes out his phone to check his texts. Nothing saying the other man is going to be late. Nothing from any of his other contacts saying that anything else is amiss, either. There is, however, the residue of magic in the air.

Hunter can’t shake the sinking feeling in his stomach that the Charmed Ones might be making his life more difficult at that very second.

Leaving the cup on Harry’s desk, Hunter leaves the office, heading down the hallway to the elevator. Along the way, he tosses his own cup into a passed trash can. He needs to check the Aptitude building.

 

In the elevator, Hunter shifts twice. First, the form of one of the colony members. If something has happened, though, then walking around like that might draw unnecessary attention. He settles on a generic college student, one he’d seen and collected for occasions just like this.

The form gets him across campus unnoticed; just another student hustling to get to her next class. In their own way, humans are just as hive-minded as the cicada demons.

Hunter finds the Aptitude building empty. Not just empty, either. Cleared out. It’s as though Aptitude never existed. There are no banners, no fliers, no people. Down on level P3, there is no nest. Nothing to indicate that there was ever anything there at all.

Except, again, the strong sensation of magical residue.

It’s the work of the Elders. Hunter recognizes it, sneers. Their little clean up crew has already been there, and it’s doubtful anyone on campus will even remember that Aptitude existed. Meanwhile, Hunter’s father is going to furious, and Hunter is going to have to bear the brunt of it.

It’s shaping up to be a _spectacular_ day.

_._

_._

_._

At least the class he’s stuck teaching as part of his cover goes smoothly. Afterwards, Hunter heads to his father’s office.

As predicted, Alastair Caine is not happy.

“What do you mean, cleared out?”

“It’s obviously the work of the Elders. There’s no trace that the cicada demons were ever there, _or_ their cover operation.”

“Damn it.” Alastair bangs his fist on his desk. “Do you understand how bad this looks? We aren’t going to be able to get demons to come to Hilltowne if they keep getting killed.”

“It's not my fault! As soon as the little witch got involved, there was no way the whole thing _wasn’t_ going to go south, Dad.”

“No.” Alastair thought about it, shook his head. “No, it could have escaped noticed. There was something more going on. Which,” Alastair stands, pointing a finger at Hunter, “is exactly the sort of thing _you’re_ supposed to be on the lookout for. How did you miss this?”

Hunter remains quiet, sullen, mulling it over. “I wasn’t paying close enough attention to the whitelighter,” he finally says. He’d been distracted with trying to keep Parker on track.

“If you can’t do the job that I’ve assigned you, Hunter, then I’m going to have to find a more competent demon who can.”

“No,” Hunter says quickly. “I can do it, Dad. I’ll pay closer attention.”

“To things other than how he likes his tea.”

Hunter narrows his eyes slightly at his father. “Part of my cover involves acting like an assistant. An assistant should know how their boss likes their morning beverage.”

Alastair hums. “Just make sure you’re not getting too into your role.”

It’s an echo of Hunter’s earlier conversation with Parker, but that’s absurd. Hunter’s not in any danger of falling in love with Harry Greenwood, and not just because he’s a whitelighter. The man’s uptight, rigid, still stuck in the fifties in dress _and_ manner. Hunter can’t picture him cutting loose and just enjoying himself, even in a complete vanilla way.

He drinks Earl Grey with lemon, for fuck’s sake, and the first time Hunter had brought him his order, he’d lectured him on the history of the tea like Hunter gave _any_ kind of crap.

“Trust me. As soon as you give the word, I’m going to take great pleasure in getting rid of him.”

Alastair smirks. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

_._

_._

_._

“Oh, Hunter, there you are!”

Hunter’s shoulders tense, hand gripping the strap of the messanger bag across his chest, before he forces himself to relax, turn around. Curls the corner of his mouth up into a tight smile in greeting.

“Professor Greenwood. Good evening.” His eyes flicker over the whitelighter’s lean frame before meeting his gaze. Navy blazer, blue plaid collared shirt, gray slacks. It would almost seem like a deliberately relaxed look, except for the bags under Harry’s eyes and the downward twist of his lips. No, something is wrong with him. Hunter sighs inwardly, mouth softening slightly.   

“I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to apologize for not being in my office this morning. I know we had an appointment.” Harry scrubs a hand over his face, shakes his head. “I’m afraid something else came up, and I didn’t have time to text you.”

“No worries, Professor. I figured it was something like that.” Hunter gives a half-shrug.

“Yes. Well.” Harry shifts on his feet, crosses and then uncrosses his arms, puts his hands behind his back. Clears his throat.  “Thank you for the tea. It was just the thing. You always fix it up perfectly.”

Hunter feels the back of his neck get hot, shrugs again. “Earl grey with lemon isn’t that hard to remember.”

“Yes, but you get the ratio--” Harry’s held up a hand to snap his fingers, falters when Hunter raises a brow. “Well. Thank you, anyway.”

“Sure.” Hunter’s grin this time isn’t quite so forced. “Maybe next time, you’ll actually be there when I bring it.”

Harry winces. “Again, Hunter, I am _so_ sorry...”

“Relax, Professor.” Hunter reaches out, pats the man on his chest. “I’m just messing with you.” He drops his hand, shoves both into his pockets. His palm is tingling.

“Right, right.” Harry chuckles. “In my defense, you _can_ be difficult to read on occasion.”

“I’m an enigma.” Hunter shrugs. “Which means I should go. Gotta keep up that air of mystery.” Hunter gestures over his shoulder, smiling easy and wide. Harry smiles back. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor. Have a good night.” He starts walking backwards.

“Yes, good night, Hunter.” Harry stands there as Hunter walks away, as though he’s waiting for something more. Hunter resists the urge to look back once he’s turned around, keeps his head ducked. A small smile curls his mouth that fades with every step. By the time he’s turned the corner, it’s gone.

_._

_._

_._

_When Hunter gets to the office the next morning, a cup in either hand, Harry is already there, bottom half stripped down to his boxers, shirt unbuttoned to reveal his undershirt. Somehow, his tie, although loosened, is still on._

_"_ _Oh, Hunter. Forgive my lack of decency, but I’ve spilled porridge all over my trousers.”_

_Hunter sets the cups down, prowls closer to the professor. “Harry. This is the most decent thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” Hunter grabs Harry’s tie, wraps it around his hand to reel in the whitelighter. His other hand catches Harry’s hip, Harry’s hands coming up to press against Hunter’s chest._

_"Oh, Hunter,” he sighs, leaning in and closing his eyes. Hunter lowers his head, smirking. “Oh, Hunter...”_

“ **_Yo_ **, Hunter.” Someone his shaking his leg. “Wake up.”

Hunter rouses slowly, burying his head into his pillow and swatting at the annoyance without looking.

“Hunter, wake **_up_ **.”

“What the fuck is it?” Hunter demands, rolling over and pushing up into a sitting position in one fluid motion. He blinks, bleary, at the intruder. “Parker?” Hunter rubs the heel of his palm against a sleepy eye. “What the hell?”

“Maggie donated her plasma.” Parker blurts it out. Hunter freezes. Slowly lowers his palm. “She came by earlier to tell me. The middle sister, Mel, donated too.”

Almost imperceptibly, Hunter’s mouth twitches up. “So now we have the DNA of all three Charmed Ones, just like Dad wanted.” His words are interrupted by a yawn, and he glances at the clock on his nightstand. “Wanna explain to me why you’re here telling me at two in the morning?”

Hunter watches his younger brother open his mouth to reply and then immediately shut it again, raises a brow. “Come on, Park, it can't be that bad.”

“No. It's--Nothing. Never mind, forget it. Sorry I woke you up for no reason.”

Hunter's brows dip down into a furrow. “Hey, little brother. You're not _no reason_. It was good news.”

“Yeah.” Parker stands. “I'll let you get back to sleep.” He moves towards the door of Hunter's bedroom, pauses again. “Hey, Hunter?”

Hunter pauses in the middle of lying down again. “Yeah, Park?”

“Do you ever wish you weren't a demon?”

“No.” Hunter scoffs, sits back up. “Why would I? I _love_ being a demon.”

“But don't you ever want to love anything else?”

Hunter pauses, images of his dream flashing through his mind. _Oh, Hunter…_

“No.” Hunter shakes his head slowly. “No, I don't. Why put myself through that? If I want to be tortured there are clubs I can go to.”

Parker sighs, makes a face as he drags a hand through his hair. “It doesn't have to be torture. And _please_ never mention those clubs again.”

“No promises,” Hunter smiles, then sighs. “And yeah, Parker. It does. We're demons. We aren't made for loving anyone but ourselves. To try is to end up with more tragedy than even a dementor wants to be around.”

“Nice try, but I know dementors aren't real anymore.” Parker is joking. Trying to lighten the mood. It falls flat, but Hunter plays along.

“It was so much more fun when you didn't.” Hunter smiles slightly before sobering again. “Seriously, though, Parker. Don't go down that path. It's destructive for everyone involved.”

“Hunter…” Parker studies him for a moment. “Were _you_ ever…”

“Good _night_ , little brother. See yourself out.” Hunter ends the conversation by lying down, staring at the patterns the moon casts on the wall through the trees.

Parker stands there for a few more seconds, then sighs, shadows swirling as he leaves.

It takes Hunter a long time to get back to sleep.

_._

_._

_._

The consequences of Parker’s late night visit and Hunter’s obsessive thoughts afterwards are the dragging of Hunter’s feet, the fact that he doesn’t shave that morning. He lets his hair dry without styling it, wears jeans and a t-shirt with a hoodie.

Exhaustion takes its toll. Even demons need their beauty sleep.

He woke up late and showering puts him behind schedule, so Hunter doesn’t have time to stop for coffee. He’s going to have to kill something during his lunch break if he wants to put himself in a better mood.

Luckily he arrives to his class before he’s technically late, and he’d planned on them watching a documentary anyway, so he takes a stack of papers out of his bag to grade while they take notes for the next paper he’s going to make them write. Hunter hasn’t announced it yet, but his students know him. Forcing college students to do ridiculous assignments isn’t as much fun as some of Hunter’s off-duty activities, but he takes his thrills where he can find them.

Students file out as the credits roll. Hunter settled on five pages, with six academic sources outside of the documentary, due in a week. It’s scrawled on the board behind him, and he’s smiling to himself as he remembers the groans he’d gotten, the looks of horror.

“Mr. T?” It takes Hunter a few seconds to respond. For obvious reasons, he doesn’t use his father’s last name in this role, but the alias is a newer one.

When he looks up, it’s to see one of his students, Ben. As soon as Hunter makes eye contact, Ben grins, wide and easy, stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks on his heels. “Hey, Mr. T. Listen, I was wondering if you had any more tutoring sessions open.”

Hunter grins back, slow. “I think I can work you in.” He leans over the desk on his elbow, is about to continue much more quietly when someone clears their throat.

Looking in the direction of the noise, Hunter startles, leaning back away from Ben quickly. Harry is standing there, holding two cups from the coffee stand near the entrance of the building’s ground floor.

“Come by my office during regular hours and we’ll figure out when we can schedule that.” Hunter picks up a pen, raps it against his desk, drops it again and stands. “Professor Greenwood.” He doesn’t look at Ben again, walks around the desk and towards Harry, who enters the room and stops about halfway down one row.  

“Hullo.” Harry shifts his weight between his feet, extends one of the cups out towards Hunter.

Their fingers brush when Hunter takes it. His ears feel hot, the corners of his mouth keep twitching upwards.

“But I don’t like Earl Grey.”

“Good think I got you one of those ridiculously sweet seasonal drinks, then.”

“Peppermint mocha?” Hunter takes a sip, grins wider, his brows quirking. “Thanks. How’d you know?”

“I didn’t,” Harry confesses, chuckles a little. “No, the girl at the cart knew your order. She, ah, finds you quite handsome.”

Hunter huffs out a quiet laugh. “Flattering. She’s not my type, though.”

“And that young man who you were just speaking with?” Ben must be gone, then. Hunter doesn’t bother to look. “I hope, Mr. Turner, that you’re not having relations with one of your students.”

Hunter has had _relations_ with that particular student six times--eight if he includes the two times in another shape. “No, Professor, of course not.”

“Because that would be extremely unprofessional, and grounds for removal.”

“Harry, I swear to you. I’m not sleeping with any of my students, male or female. Currently, I’m not sleeping with anybody.”

The tips of Harry’s ears turn red, he clears his throat again. “It wouldn’t be my business if you were, as long as it wasn’t a student.”

“Of mine.”

“What?”

“A student of mine. Nothing says I can’t date a student from another department. Like that girl at the coffee cart.”

“Right.” Harry frowns slightly. “She’s not your type.”

“Just an example.”

“Hm.” Harry keeps frowning, directing it down at his cup. Hunter sips at his mocha to hide his smile. What is Harry even doing there? Did he come by just to bring Hunter coffee? He checks his watch.

“Hey, Harry, I’ve got to get my things together and get to my next class. That one’s not just a documentary, unfortunately.” Hunter holds up his cup. “Thanks for this.”

Hunter turns to go back to the desk for his things, figuring Harry will see himself out.

“Lunch.”

Pausing at his desk, Hunter turns slightly. “What?”

“We should reschedule our appointment for lunch. I’ll order takeout, as it’s a working lunch.”

“Uh,” Hunter hesitates, starts packing his bag. He doesn’t have any real reason to refuse, though. What can he say? ‘Sorry, whitelighter, I’ve got to go blow off steam by either fucking or killing something’? That would go over well. “Alright. I’ll swing by your office around one?”

“Perfect. The food, and I, will be waiting.” Harry flashes a charming grin. Too charming.

Confused, Hunter smiles back. “Alright, Professor. I’ll see you later.” With his free hand, Hunter pats Harry’s shoulder as he passes him on his way out.

_What the hell?_

_._

_._

_._

The Charmed Ones are on to him.

Hunter has spent all of his lecture trying to figure out why Harry was acting so strangely, and it's the only explanation he has.

The Charmed Ones are, somehow, on to him, and his lunch with Harry is an ambush.

Hunter dismisses his very confused students, nodding and smiling when one or two pause to ask if he's okay. Apparently he seems distracted. Hunter can't imagine why.

If Harry _is_ planning on killing him, Hunter is not going in defenseless. He slips a vial of hellflame into his pocket, in case he needs a distraction to get away. He wishes he had more defenses against witches up in his apartment, which won't be safe if they decide to come looking for him. If they're really after him, Hunter will need to go underground. That leaves Parker on his own against the Charmed Ones and their father.

With his hand already clutching the vial in his pocket, Hunter approaches Harry's office. What is finds isn't three witches laying in wait.

Instead, Harry is fussing with a takeout bag that one of the containers has apparently leaked open into, and he looks up at Hunter, distraught, when he enters the room. “It is poor quality of service to deliver food without making sure the lid is on properly!”

Hunter glances around, but he doesn’t sense any other magical beings except for the two of them. Relaxing, he slips his hand out of his pocket, shuts the door. Laughs a little. “Takeout containers leak, Harry. Here.” He walks over to Harry, grabbing a few napkins from a stack on top of some papers, and holds the napkin under the drip. With his other hand, he takes the bag from Harry. Carefully, Hunter transfers it all into the closest garbage can. “At least the whole thing didn’t spill.”

Harry has grabbed more napkins and is wiping the guilty container, and then his desk beneath it. “Small blessings. I suppose I should be relieved that my clothes came out unscathed, as well.” Tossing those napkins into the trash, Harry holds his hands up, looks down at himself to double-check.

_Forgive my lack of decency, but I’ve spilled porridge all over my trousers._

Hunter sucks in a sharp breath, shakes his head. “Nope. All good. You look fine.” Rather than stand there awkwardly, Hunter takes a seat. Watches Harry finish checking himself before doing the same thing.

“Let’s eat before we discuss anything, shall we?” Harry smiles at Hunter across his desk, and it only seems a little forced. Hunter glances around again, reaches for a container of what is, upon opening it, pasta salad. He wrinkles his nose, sets it down again, and reaches for a sandwich.

Harry opens the container that caused all his problems, frowns a little. “My soup’s half gone, and cold.”

“This lunch is giving you all sorts of problems.” Chuckling, Hunter sets the sandwich down again, stands up. “Come on. We’ll go somewhere and get something.”

Harry looks at the food he’s already got: two sandwiches, two bags of crisps, cold soup. He looks up at Hunter. Stands.

“I hope you have some place good in mind.”

_._

_._

_._

Once they’re out of Harry’s office, Hunter relaxes even more. There’s almost no possibility of an ambush if Harry doesn’t even know where they’re going. It’s easier to talk to him as they walk off campus, close enough their shoulders brush occasionally. Outside is misty, chilled enough that Harry’s cheeks and nose are pink when Hunter holds the door open for him at the Pie Pub.

“Really?” Harry glances at him in amusement, and Hunter shrugs.

“I like it here.”

The Pie Pub lives up to its name. All is serves are pies--sweet and savory, dessert, pot, hand. The real draw, however, is the locally made hard cider that’s served on tap. Hunter orders himself pomegranate, much to Harry’s disapproval.

“I don’t teach again today,” Hunter points out.

“No, but you do have a lecture later, Mr. Turner.” Harry shakes his head, simply gets water for himself. Hunter smiles despite his eye roll.

“Do you ever relax?”

“I relax.” Harry orders himself a mini cottage pie, while Hunter favors the barbecue pork empanada. “I don’t find being tipsy when I need to be responsible very relaxing, though.”

“Alright.” With their food and drinks, they find a table for two tucked into the back corner behind the bar. “So what do you do for fun?”

“Well, I…” Harry falters. “I...Cook.”

“You cook. For yourself?” Hunter takes a bite of his empanada, washes it down with a drink.  

“Not lately, no.” Harry looks thoughtful. “I used to very much enjoy dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“Blues, swing--particularly lindy hop. You know, the things that pass for trendy hobbies nowadays.”

“Spoken like an old man.” Hunter laughs. “The good thing about trendy hobbies is that there is always somewhere to do them.” Leaning back, Hunter thinks for a few seconds. “There’s a place downtown that does lindy hop on Friday nights.”

“Yes, Sweet’s”

“So you’ve been.”

“No. I’ve meant to, but I haven’t had the time.” Harry shrugs thin shoulders.

Hunter hums, leans back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against his glass. “We should fix that.”

Pausing, Harry raises both brows at Hunter with a forkful of potatoes and beef poised in front of his mouth. “Are you suggesting _we_ go dancing together?”

Although Hunter is absolutely positive that wasn’t what he was suggesting, looking into Harry’s blue eyes, he can’t begin to remember where he was going with the conversation. He was teasing Harry, Hunter is sure that he’d been teasing Harry. The whitelighter. Seeing if there was anything Hunter can use against him.

Harry’s expression falters slightly, and Hunter realizes he’s taken too long to answer.

“I am,” he blurts, before Harry can take his words back. Harry’s eyes widen a little more. Hunter’s a little surprised himself. “If you think you can keep up.”

“Oh, I am quite certain that I could dance you dizzy.”

Hunter laughs. “Alright. I’m looking forward to it.”

For a second, it seems like Harry’s going to say something else. Instead, he smiles, takes a bite of his cottage pie.

Hunter goes back to his empanada, smiling as well. The cider, he leaves barely touched, and pretends he doesn’t see the approving look Harry gives it as they leave.

He just doesn’t really feel like drinking.

_._

_._

_._

“You’re going on a date with the whitelighter?”

“This breaking and entering thing you’re doing is getting to be a habit, Park.” Hunter doesn’t look up from the paper he’s grading. “Did you forget how to knock?”

“Four TAs use this office.”   

“And you’re lucky none of them are here.”

Parker glares at him, pout on his boyish face, arms crossed over his chest. “You’re avoiding the question. True or false, Hunter: are you going on a date with the whitelighter?”

“It’s not a date.” A large 64% on the front of the paper, a few scribbles in the rubric, and Hunter is satisfied.

“You’re taking him dancing. Maggie’s even excited about it. She’s helping him pick out an _outfit_.”

“I hope she picks something blue to bring out his eyes.”

“What happened to ‘We’re demons. We aren’t made for loving anyone but ourselves’? What happened to ‘that’s not us’ and ‘feelings are for people’? It’s ‘destructive for everyone involved’?”

Hunter laughs. “Who said anything about love, or feelings? Parker,” he stands, goes around the desk and past his little brother to shut the door. “Parker, Parker. Dad told me to keep an eye on the whitelighter. That means getting close to him. Something that, unlike you, I am capable of doing without getting attached.”

Parker narrows his eyes. “Can you?”

“Parker, I’m a demon.”

For a long time, Parker doesn’t say anything. Hunter shifts his weight, slips his hands in his pockets, then out again. Finally, his younger brother speaks again. “You know, Hunter, you keep saying things like that, like it means something. I don’t think it does. I think you’re fooling yourself. Maybe Dad too. But--and maybe this is my weak, human side talking--I think you like Harry. I think you’re just as screwed as I am.”

Before Hunter can respond, Parker is gone, the door hitting the wall with the force of his throwing it open.

Hunter stares at the spot where he stood for several seconds, closes his eyes.

 _You’re wrong, Park_ , he thinks. Because Parker is half human. Hunter? Hunter doesn’t have that luxury.

He not screwed.

He’s completely fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it ends kind of abruptly, but honestly if it hadn't it would have gone on forever, and I have other fics to write, lol.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think! Comments are greatly appreciated.
> 
> For those reading **tomorrow's blues** , the next chapter should be up by Thursday night.


End file.
